


Unspoiled

by tacky_tramp



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Jealousy, Pseudo-Incest, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacky_tramp/pseuds/tacky_tramp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne returns from her first afternoon alone with Harry, and her father demands a full account of what transpired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoiled

Her hair was still wild from the ride when she arrived in her father's study. He looked up from the letters and documents spread before him, taking in her windblown gown and pink cheeks. His appraising gaze made Alayne wish she'd tidied herself a bit better before coming to him. He sat there as composed as ever as she stood before him and smoothed her skirts.

"Good evening, Father," she said, and waited for him to beckon her over for a kiss. This was their daily ritual. Sometimes he offered his cheek, the very picture of paternal affection; sometimes he claimed her mouth and pulled her down into his lap, and things between them were ... different. In either case, the routine had become a comfort to her, keeping her grounded and secure.

"Good evening, Alayne," he said in turn. But he made no move to invite her closer.

A long moment passed, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Was he going to scold her for looking so unkempt? He wasn't frowning; his brow was smooth and unconcerned. Unsure, she took the seat across from him, and she pulled her hair over her shoulder to braid it.

Still he said nothing. He watched her intently for a moment as her fingers wove in and out of her hair, pale against the rich brown strands. She smiled at him, ever the dutiful daughter, but some far-away part of her wondered if he wished her hair were a different color. It was traitorous, that little part; she tried to ignore it, but that got harder every day.

Finally, he spoke. "How was your outing with Harry?"

Something in his voice stilled her fingers. The question was calm, but then she saw that his hands gripped his papers too tightly and there was a dangerous edge in his eyes. Jealousy? Fear prickled through her. _That's not fair. He told me to do it. He wanted me to. Didn't he?_ She thought back to their conversation that morning. Her father had instructed her to spend an afternoon alone with Harry, to woo him, to seduce him even, as long as her virtue remained technically intact. Had he forgotten, or changed his mind? She hated to think what that might mean for her.

"It was fine," she replied evenly. His expression didn't change; she added, a little desperately, "It was exactly as you said."

He steepled his fingers under his chin. "You charmed him?"

"Yes."

"How?"

She shrugged. "I smiled at him. I laughed at his jests, stupid as they were. I mostly pretended like his stories utterly fascinated me, but I did act unimpressed a few times and made him try harder to win me over."

He nodded. "Good. Harry's a simple boy who likes getting what he wants, so you mustn't act too haughty or aloof. Now and then, though, you must throw up some resistance so he doesn't grow bored."

"It was difficult," she admitted. "Striking the right balance. But I think I did well."

He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'll be a seasoned seductress in no time." She wanted to protest, to tell him she found it loathsome and tedious, but he continued: "You kissed him?"

She frowned. "He kissed me, and I allowed it."

"What was it like?"

"Not very good," she said immediately.

He waited.

"I didn't like it as much as ... I mean, it's much better when you ..."

Another smile, this one gentler than before. "Are you afraid I'll be angry, Alayne? Or hurt, perhaps?"

She looked down at her hands. Displeasing him always frightened her. He'd never struck her, but she supposed it was only a matter of time. If he was upset about what she'd done with Harry, there was no telling what he'd do. "I guess so," she ventured. "If you're jealous, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to ... I only ..."

He reached toward her and she almost flinched. She managed to stay still and steady as he took her hand and covered it with his own. "Alayne," he said softly, "why would I be jealous? You spent an intimate afternoon with your intended, doing exactly what your father bid you do." His fingers stroked hers, the back of her hand, and her palm. "I trust you took care to avoid any activities that would endanger your maidenhead?"

She nodded firmly. "Of course."

"Of course," he echoed. "So what have I to be angry or hurt about?"

She smiled, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Nothing."

"Come here," he said, patting his knee. She obeyed, relief washing over her -- and, although she didn't want to acknowledge it, anticipation. He was always generous with his approval when she'd pleased him. He arranged her on his lap, her back against his chest, and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. When he spoke again, his mouth was right next to her ear, and she shivered. "So you allowed him to kiss you. What else did you allow?"

She wanted to sink back into his arms and forget about Harry, but a question required an answer. "He touched me," she said, still wary.

"Where did he touch you?"

She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her chest. "Here," she said, curling his fingers toward her -- but he jerked away.

"Don't show me," he admonished. "Tell me."

Alayne could feel him growing hard beneath her. Did he like hearing her describe what she'd done with another man? That made no sense to her. "We got to a clearing," she said slowly, "and he made a fire near some boulders we could sit on. My hands were so cold, so he pulled me close under his cloak." Her father was tense as a bowstring, his fingers drawing idle patterns against her hips. She took a deep breath and continued. "He kissed me and put his hands on my ... on my breasts."

Behind her, her father sighed. "Was he rough with your breasts, or gentle?"

"Fairly gentle, but insistent. He squeezed them. I was coy and told him to stop, but he laughed and said they were so soft that he couldn't help himself."

Alayne felt her father's hands slide up her middle. Her breath was coming faster, and it was getting harder to think of him as her father; in her head, she whispered Petyr, but she bit her tongue to keep it inside. Not yet. He'd be cross.

"They are very soft," he murmured, his fingertips brushing the underside of her breasts. She gasped and leaned her head back onto his shoulder. Even through the thick fabric of her gown, her skin responded to his touch immediately, growing tingly and igniting a restlessness inside her. It hadn't felt anything like this when Harry had grabbed at her. She squirmed a little, trying to press more firmly into his hands, but he held her still. "And then?"

She blinked, trying to remember what had happened next. "Then he ... well, it was so cold, but he wanted to lift up my skirts and touch me ... down there."

"Down where?" he asked innocently, his fingers still barely teasing the bottom of her breasts.

Her face went hot. "You know."

"But I don't," he insisted. "Did he want to touch your lovely ankles? Your pretty kneecaps? Or was it" -- and he slowly, deliberately rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, making her nearly cry out -- " _your cunt_?"

"Yes," she hissed. She hated saying words like that, but hearing him say them made her flushed and hungry. "I wouldn't let him, though."

"Why ever not? You love it when I touch your cunt." He emphasized the word with a pinch, the sting shooting through her whole body.

Concentration eluded her; with her father's hands on her and growing hardness underneath, she struggled to focus. "It's like you said. I have to resist so he doesn't get bored." He pinched the other nipple and she whimpered. "And ... and to convince him I'm still a virgin. He didn't believe me. He said pretty bastard girls are never virgins."

She could feel her father -- _Petyr_ \-- smile against her cheek. "He's right, of course. If only you were truly a bastard. He could have fucked you right there in the snow, and no one would have cared."

Dimly, she thought, _I would have cared_ ; but she knew she didn't count. Anyway, maybe if she were a real bastard, she'd be wanton and willing with any man, not just with Petyr. She didn't feel like a lady just then, her back arched as he rolled her nipples between finger and thumb, sweet and sharp even through her clothes.

"I think he believed me in the end," she continued, her breath growing labored. "He seemed excited. Said he'd never had a virgin."

"He should be excited," he replied. "A man of his station deserves a virgin bride. It will matter even more to him when he learns who he's really marrying. He'll want proof that you are ... unspoiled." Another pinch on her nipple and a wet kiss on her neck, and she didn’t feel unspoiled.

"What happened after your virtuous refusal?"

"He wanted me to touch him."

"And you obliged."

"Yes."

"Where did you touch him?"

She squirmed, blushing again. "I don't want to say it."

He laughed low and dark. "Oh, but I want to hear it," he said, his lips against her earlobe. "And you want to give me what I want. Don't you, my sweet girl?"

It made her hate herself, but in that moment, she did. "I touched his prick," she said quietly.

Her father grunted and buried his face in her neck, and she could feel him cant his hips against her bottom. He was fully hard now. "How did you touch it?"

"Well, he ... he sort of guided my hand. He put it inside his breeches and wrapped my fingers around it. He moved my hand up and down, like ..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence: _Like I do for you_.

He seemed barely to notice. His hands left her breasts and gripped her hips, rocking her against himself. "And what did you think of his prick?"

"I couldn't see it," she said, "but it felt ..."

He heard her hesitation and chuckled. "Big?"

She remembered long ago overhearing some boys talking about their members, comparing and bragging and mocking each other. Carefully, she said, "Yes."

"Bigger than mine?"

She turned her head and met his gaze. There was no worry or anger in his eyes; just hunger. "Yes," she said again. "Longer and thicker." He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. It made her bold, and she added, "It seemed like it would hurt."

He laughed outright at that. "It might," he allowed, "if he's a brute. But it doesn't have to hurt. Most women prefer a big prick, assuming its owner knows what to do." He let one hand fall from her hip and placed it between her legs. She drew in a sharp breath, but he didn't begin touching her in earnest. His hand lay there lightly as he continued. "I wonder if your Harry knows how to get a woman ready for his long, thick cock," he mused. "I think you should find out."

The flush in her cheeks was spreading through her entire body now, and her mind felt fuzzy, too. "Find ...out? How?"

"Let him touch you," he answered simply. "The next time he gets you alone -- and believe me, he'll try to get you alone soon -- let him pull up your skirts and touch what's underneath." With this, he began to gather the heavy fabric of her gown. In slow, deliberate handfuls, he tugged it up into her lap, baring her stocking-clad legs. "Do you want him to touch your cunt?"

_I want you to touch my cunt_ , she thought. But the words wouldn't come, and she only said, "I don't know."

He had exposed her thighs and was stroking them lightly through her hose. "You'll find out if he's a fumbling fool or if he can bring you pleasure." Idly, he toyed with her garters. "Do you want pleasure?"

Her mouth was dry. "Yes," she whispered. She was rewarded with his long, cool fingers slipping between her thighs where the skin was bare. One knuckle just brushed against her smallclothes, but even that light touch was enough to make her whine and throw her head back onto his shoulder.

"Does he know, I wonder, that he has to take his time?" Petyr nudged his fingers in closer to her, but only a tiny bit. The smooth fabric of her undergarments shifted against her, every sensation magnified by his teasing. She was aching by now.

"Please," she whispered. She squeezed her thighs together to try to force his touch, but his hand was strong and didn’t budge.

"'Please,' what?"

She was past embarrassment, feeling only dizzy and desperate. "Please touch me harder. Touch ... my _cunt_."

"Yes, that's exactly what you'll say to him," Petyr replied. "If he's smart, he'll keep a cool head and make you beg more before giving you what you want." He paused, and she wanted to scream. This was cruel and horrible and yet still delicious somehow. Surely he couldn't keep her waiting like this for long. He brought his lips close to her ear again and said, "But I think we both know Harry's not very smart." With that, he grabbed her firmly, driving her smallclothes between her folds. A sudden jolt of pleasure shot through her and she choked back a sob of relief.

Petyr's breath was ragged and uneven now, but he kept talking. "He'll want to feel your sweet bare skin, of course." He toyed with the fabric between her legs, tugging it this way and that, knowing the friction drove her mad. "Do you think he'll undress you carefully?"

"No," she managed. "He'll just shove it all aside ... or," she added hopefully, "or tear it off."

He chuckled. Obligingly, he grabbed the thin garment and yanked it down her thighs. She could hear the seams ripping, and the sound went right through her. Then his hand was on her, sinking into her curls, his fingers slipping between her outer lips. She trembled as he spoke. "He'll feel how wet you get, dripping wet, just like this." The tip of one finger was poised at her entrance. "Then he'll be dying to slide right in, inch by inch, stretching you and filling you." The finger twitched, as if threatening to follow through on his words, and she went very still. He'd never ... he'd always said they mustn't …

"Is that what you want?" he asked, finger frozen in place.

She was gripping the edge of his desk to keep herself steady. "I ... I don't know."

He purred in her ear, "Of course you don't know. You've never had anything inside you." He continued teasing her entrance, his finger sliding easily between her wet lips. "We're so careful, aren't we? We must take care of your precious maidenhead." His thumb found that spot just above her cunt -- the clitoris, he called it, and she trusted that he'd know the right word -- and brushed back and forth over it. She sucked in a gasp. Her hips were restless now, seeking more, ever more. He continued, "I can't even use this finger to fuck you. Can't drive it into that tight cunt of yours until you beg me to stop."

She moaned, his words and touch driving her closer to her peak. "Don't stop," she panted. "Please, I. I want you to. I want to know. I want to feel it."

But he only kept teasing. The tip of his finger dipped inside her less than an inch, just enough to give her a taste of sensation. His blunt nail scratched her slightly and the pad of his finger was deliciously rough.

"Do it," she cried in frustration. She stood suddenly, turned to face him, and gathered her skirts up. He watched her, surprised and off-balance, and she held his gaze and lowered herself onto his lap. Her slim thighs bracketed his hips, her cunt close to the bulge in his breeches. His eyes went wide.

"Do it, Petyr," she murmured, reaching for his laces. She freed his cock, and with her other hand, she pulled her smallclothes to the side. She rubbed the head of his prick against herself where she was hot and slick. She groaned, and so did he, his fingers biting into her thighs, his eyes narrowing and mouth going slack. She kissed him lightly. "Take it," she whispered, "and he won't want me. This will all be over. We can leave, we can go away together, we can go home--"

His half-closed eyes flew open and seized her arms, freezing her in place. "No, Sansa!" he choked out. The lust that had threatened to overtake him was receding, and fury replaced it. She trembled. She'd gone too far; now at last he'd strike her, and maybe worse. He lifted and shoved her off his lap and onto his desk, snarling, "I am not going to fuck you." His fingers wound tightly into her hair as he brought her face close to his. "Your maidenhead is reserved for Harry." Even as he said this, his free hand flipped up her skirts. He pressed his thumb against her once again, driving a rough and insistent rhythm over her clitoris. Despite her fear -- or perhaps because of it -- she found she was right at the edge of orgasm. Keening, she braced herself on the desk and tilted her hips, driving up into his touch. "And once he's claimed his prize," Petyr continued, his lips right against hers, "I'll take what's been mine all along." He kissed her hard, and she shuddered and came, clutching at the papers underneath her.

For a moment, they were still. His fast, uneven breath fell hot on her cheeks, and the taste of him lingered on her lips. She pressed her forehead to his. She couldn't be afraid of him right now, not when every part of her was still languid and tingling. His grip on her hair loosened and he stroked her scalp feather-light. He slipped a few strands between his fingers, all the way down to the gently curling ends, and then let his hand fall on her shoulder.

"My turn," he said, his voice hoarse.

She blinked, her thoughts still slow and unclear. He slid his hand over her shoulder, down to the elbow, and maneuvered her arm in between them. Oh, of course. She reached down to where his breeches were open and his prick nudged out toward her. Just like he'd taught her, she took him in hand and stroked. Slow at first, but he thrust his hips faster and she picked up the pace. It only took a moment, and then he was spending on her thighs, on her garters and hose and the torn remains of her smallclothes, whispering, "Sansa."

Harry, of course, had called her Alayne. He'd almost shouted it, clutching at her as he came in her hand. She’d pretended to be embarrassed and confused, but there was no need for such a performance with Petyr. _With Father_ , she corrected herself, for as she met his eyes, she could see his demeanor already changing. He was pulling back his anger and desire alike until only distant affection remained.

“I’m glad you and Harry had a productive afternoon,” her father said, tucking his softening prick back into his breeches and smoothing his tunic. He ran a hand through his hair and over his beard. He was composed again, and again Alayne felt off-balance and out of sorts in comparison. “You should have a relaxing bath before supper.”

She meant to say, “Yes, Father,” but the words wouldn’t come. She just nodded. He turned away discreetly, and she used the scrap of fabric that had been her smallclothes to wipe herself clean. _Unspoiled_ , she thought, and retreated to her chambers.


End file.
